


Wicked Game

by PepperF



Category: Blake's 7, Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-30
Updated: 2010-01-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:12:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I should just space you right now, spare us all one of Blake's tedious moral dilemmas."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wicked Game

**Author's Note:**

> Stargate SG-1 / Blake's 7 crossover, written for oxoniensis's Porn Battle 9 (posted here), prompt: barter.

Vala always thinks Freedom City is a little too desperate to actually be fun. Sure, there are the bars full of exotic liquor, illegal drugs and pseudo-sophisticated pleasures (although what pleasure anyone can find in a game of chess – at any speed – she has yet to comprehend), and of course there's a diverse menu of perversities on offer... but no one actually seems to be having a good time. It's a depressing, seedy place – if fascinating and potentially lucrative – and the faster and further she can get away from it, the better.

Particularly with Darvo's Star of Mourning in her possession, of course.

It had been easy enough to persuade the little man that she needed a ride, but unfortunately he'd been about as good at lying to his crewmate as he was at standing up to Vala. And the crewmate looks a little less friendly.

"I should just space you right now, spare us all one of Blake's tedious moral dilemmas."

Make that very _un_ friendly.

"Look, Avon, we could just pop back, drop her off at Freedom City again – I mean, we've only just launched, it's not like—" Avon shoots the little man a speaking look. "Oh. Oh! Yes, I forgot about... oh." He looks from Avon to Vala and back. "Oops?" he offers.

"On second thought, maybe I should just space _you_ ," Avon tells him, wearily, "and spare an execution squad the effort of shooting us someday."

"I thought Blake was the one who was going to get us all shot?"

"I haven't worked out yet which is more dangerous: his idealism, or your stupidity."

"Or your cupidity?" retorts Vila.

"Oh, well done. Have you been waiting a long time to use that one?"

"Well, isn't this lovely," says Vala, brightly. Thrown out of an airlock or taken back to Freedom City, she's dead either way. "Now we've exchanged witty banter and we're all good friends again. Surely we can come to some mutually beneficial arrangement? I mean, no sense in sending me back when I can offer... so much." She waits to see how Avon interprets that – it's the key to his weakness. 

His eyes widen a little, and then narrow abruptly. "Such as?"

Vala chews her lip. Damn. Well, seeing as the only valuable she has at the moment is the Star of Mourning, and she's not going to give that up after all the effort she put into acquiring it... "Well, I was thinking sex," she suggests, matter-of-factly.

Vila makes a choked noise.

"Vila, do go away," Vala says, holding Avon's suddenly darkened gaze.

Vila looks at Avon, who says nothing, only continues to give her an intense stare. "Well, okay. But only because my ears are too delicate for this conversation," he grumbles, and heads out of the door, stopping only to glance back at Avon once more. "Show the girl your leatherwear collection," he suggests. "She might actually enjoy it." He slams the door behind him.

Avon walks forward, looking dangerous, and Vala obligingly backs away. Not entirely to her surprise, he backs her up to where a convenient pipe (or possibly towel rail, chin-up bar, or recreational bondage beam – it's hard to tell with the architecture on this ship) emerges from the wall, and pulls a set of restraints from his pocket.

"You know, you have some serious trust issues," she tells him, as he cuffs her hand to the pipe, level with her head.

"I don't have trust issues," says Avon, cuffing her other hand. "I don't trust anyone – hence, no issues."

Well, she's hardly one to argue with that philosophy. "Why are you carrying around wrist restraints, anyway?" He doesn't answer – just steps back to view his handiwork. "You know, this usually works better with a bed and fewer clothes," she suggests, shaking her wrists experimentally. "Or alternatively, me over here with my hands free, and you over there with a drink and some snacks." Anyone wearing that much leather has to have a kink or two; voyeurism is the least of her worries.

"I haven't agreed to the deal, yet," he says, although she can tell he's interested. He steps a little closer, but still out of reach of even a really good kick. "Persuade me," he challenges, eyes flickering over her body.

"I don't think I can manage a striptease..." He doesn't answer, simply waits, and she sighs and rolls her eyes. "What d'you want me to do?" she asks, dropping and softening her voice. "Do you want me to beg? Please, kind sir," she says, writhing sinuously into a kind of upright obeisance, "give me a ride on your great... big... ship. Or do you want me to flatter? I knew you were the one to be reckoned with, the moment you entered the room. I could sense your power, like a panther, waiting to spring. Or should I be wanton?" She strains against the restraints toward him. "Please, please, I can't stand it any longer, please fuck me. Or cold, and slightly hostile? This is simply a business arrangement, you understand. I feel no attraction toward—"

He steps forward and silences her with a brutal kiss, his hand wrapping around her neck, pressing her back against the wall. Cold and slightly hostile it is, then. She jerks her head to the side, breaking free of the kiss.

"I see we have a deal."

His hand on her neck tightens briefly, threatening to cut off her oxygen, but just as she's beginning to worry that his kink might be something _really_ disappointing, like necrophilia, he releases her, and trails down to caress her cleavage, instead. "We have a deal," he agrees, tersely. One nimble hand finds and begins to unfasten the multitude of tiny hooks that hold her corset together so snugly, while the other explores her curves, running from her bare shoulder, down the curve of her back, to her shapely behind. Then up again, and – to her annoyance – pulling out the pin that holds up her long hair and dropping it with a _pling_ on the floor.

"You know it's only going to be a matter of time before Vila lets slip to your crewmates and – Blake, was it? – what you're up to."

"Mm." He doesn't sound hugely concerned, so she shrugs.

"Then I'll just uncover and exploit their weaknesses too, I suppose." She's actually rather enjoying the freedom to say these things. "Perhaps I'll turn them against you, tell them it was rape."

He flashes his teeth in what might be described as a grin, as the last hook gives way and her breasts spill out. No bra – who needs one, with leather this tight? Besides, fancy lingerie was the snake's thing. "They might very well believe you." He lets the corset fall, and she's grateful that the snake long-since killed any nudity issues she might have had. "Quite the survivor, aren't you?"

She shrugs as best she can with both her hands chained to a pipe. "It's a hard habit to break." 

He kisses her, hard, pressing her head back against the wall and biting her lip, his hands bunching in her long skirt (another thing she finds tiresome and artificial about Freedom City: the anachronistic insistence that women should wear long gowns). 

"Careful, this dress was expensive," she pants, as he works his way down her neck, leaving marks in a way she's starting to find quite pleasurable. In response, he steps back and in one swift move rips the skirt from hem to waist, exposing her frivolous underwear (okay, perhaps it wasn't just the snake). "Oh, you are paying for that!"

"It didn't suit you, anyway. Far too ladylike."

Next time, maybe she'll chain him up. He seems like he might have a deep-seated need to be bound, gagged, stripped, whipped, and fucked senseless. If he's a very good boy, perhaps she won't rob him blind afterwards. 

His smirk disappears under her narrow gaze, and he grabs her by the hips and turns her roughly around to face the wall, meaning that her arms are quite inconveniently crossed. "Hey!" His hands rove possessively across her ass, flipping her torn skirt aside and playing along the edges of her skin. He dips testingly between her legs, and that's not bad at all, so she steps a little wider, leaning her elbows against the wall. "Sadist," she mutters. He presses harder. "Pervert. Mmm, just there." He obliges.

She zones out, like a cat being stroked, until he bends his body over hers, bracing his free hand against the wall. Instead of warm skin he's all cold leather, and she can feel those damn silver studs pressing into her backside. She closes her eyes and shivers, pushing back against them, and his fingers trail damply up her torso and curl around a breast. She moves with him as he presses against her, losing himself in his own pleasure. Normally, this would be when her mind clears and she begins to wonder whether she's made a mistake – but the brush of the warming leather against her back and his firm, confident hand are proving really... quite distracting.

He's now very interested. "So are you ever going to take your clothes off?" she asks, surprised at the breathiness of her own voice. He doesn't answer, but his hand leaves her breast and slides down, tugging on her underwear until they fall the rest of the way by themselves. "You, not me," she says, stepping out and nearly getting them tangled in her actually quite practical boots. His hand slides back between her legs, fingers flat, and she groans. "Not that I care."

She thinks he laughs, just faintly, and then he's stepping back again, just when it was beginning to get really good. Then she hears the creak of leather and the jingle of a belt as he unbuttons his pants, and a moment later she feels the press of his cock, sliding between her legs. She bends forward slightly, following the request of his hands, and he guides himself back and forth for a moment, teasing her. Then, slowly but steadily, he enters her. 

"Don't worry," she grits, as he starts to move, "it's not the size of it, but what you do wi- _hnnnnng_." He's using his fingers again. Only moments later, she's coming, relishing the feel of him inside and on her. She slumps against the wall, panting, not particularly caring right now that the weight on her wrists is going to bruise. He stills for a moment, his hand moving to support her – but his body is practically vibrating with tension, and when her knees are steadier and she's not about to collapse, she straightens and presses back into him. He takes that for the signal she'd intended, and groans, wrapping his arm around her stomach to pull her close.

"It's been a while," he gasps, biting her shoulder, "so I'm afraid I'm not going to—" He breaks off with a sharp breath when – hands not being an option – she clenches tightly around him. "Dammit, woman!"

"Well hurry up, then," she grins, and does it again. "My arms are killing me."

"Oh, you are so..." He is, at last, unable to find a suitably cutting phrase – so it's no surprise when, a few seconds later, he comes hard inside her, shuddering, hot breaths puffing out against her skin. 

"—With it that counts," she finally finishes. He laughs breathlessly into the back of her neck, sounding much more human.

For a time, they rest against the wall, catching their breath – until her protesting wrists become too much to ignore, and she wriggles. "Seriously, my arms..."

"Oh, sorry." He moves back quickly, and – ungentlemanly, or maybe just shy, even after all this – rebuttons and buckles himself before reaching up and running a device over her restraints that releases them instantly. She notes which pocket it goes into, even as she's turning her back to the wall and sliding down, rubbing her wrists.

"Ow. Damn, that's going to leave a mark." She picks up her hairpin and her corset, and plucks at her torn skirt. "I don't suppose you've got a change of clothes around here?"

He leans against the wall and slides down to sit beside her. "Actually, we have an entire wardrobe room." At her look, he shrugs. "It came with the ship. There's also a shower in the guest quarters."

Vala's smile is genuine, this time, and she covers it by sweeping her hair into a knot. "What about the rest of the crew? What're you going to tell them about me?"

Avon flashes his teeth. "Well, now. You're not the only one who knows how to exploit a few weaknesses." He reveals no more, just straightens his legs out in front of him, stretches his knees, and yawns briefly. 

Vala pins the little jewelled Star back into her hair, and smiles to herself in satisfaction. Avon might be a shrewd negotiator and an excitingly ruthless lover, but he knows absolutely nothing about women's hair ornaments.

\---

END.


End file.
